Drink With Me
by shakespond
Summary: Now seen as a usual occurrence, Haymitch long ago slipped into his world of liquor. But this time, Effie ends up worse off. Implied Hayffie.


_**Note: Loosely based on the prompt by the-stray-liger.**_

The rattle of empty bottles resonates throughout the room. I look around, taking in my surroundings. Ragged clothes lay strewn across the floor; cups balance precariously on the edge of various tables; the smell of liquor is strong and unmissable. And in the corner to my right, slumped over and dribbling mindlessly, a bedraggled looking Haymitch sits passed out in a chair.

With a click of my tongue, and a rather sharp intake of breath, I begin the few short strides it takes me to reach his side. In his usual drunken stupor, awakening him from his slumber is never an easy feat, but the number of bottles appears to be at least doubled, and I'm sure the liquor is of a stronger brand. I eye the knife in his hand with caution.

"Haymitch," I say quietly, edging closer with each syllable. He doesn't flinch. "Haymitch, I swear, if you do not get up now, we will be incredibly late," I try again, authority creeping into my voice. It makes no difference.

Straightening up, I run my hands down my skirt, feeling suffocated admist the mess. Determination begins to outrank any other form of sanity I may hold as all legitimate ideas leave my mind, and only the ones that may be seen as irrational remain, just waiting for one to be reaped. It seems whatever comes out of my jar of thoughts will never truly be the right solution, but I ignore this. After all, isn't that what we're taught to do?

I make my way to the kitchen, manoeuvring around a selection of dirty laundry, and being ever so careful not to tangle my heels amongst the web of stray garments; the idea of toppling head first into a month old pair of trousers doesn't particularly appeal to me. Slowly but surely, I arrive at the sink. It doesn't take long to find a cup, with most of them left primitively unwashed, and so now I only hope that the tap does indeed work. Not that Haymitch would notice if it didn't. A dirty dishrag lies to my left.

I clasp the cup in my hand and make my way back to the sleeping- or most likely, unconscious- figure. With a gentle tilt, the cool liquid forms a downwards path, soaking the blonde strands beneath it. Almost immediately, Haymitch bolts upright, swinging his knife above his head. But it was expected, and so I'm out of the way before any harm can be done.

"Who is it?" he slurs, eyes half open. I take a step forward, hopeful that the initial outburst is over. Up close, I see more than I have ever cared to pay attention to before. His eyes are worn and old. Too many horrors lying behind closed lids. I think of my own bright complexion, and suddenly feel a little ashamed. I push it away.

"Get up," I say, not wishing to answer his question. His face contorts into one of recognition before eventually settling on a grimace.

"What?" His tone is low, the words leaving as nearly incomprehensible snarls.

"How long have you been here, drowning in your own urine?" I trill, anger rising in my voice. "Do you not think about the consequences this will have on us all? You are not the only one to care for."

"That's rich, coming from you," he says.

At this remark, I am taken aback. "Haymitch Abernathy, you have no right to speak to me like that. And no right to live as you do. Not with so many others on the line." I cling desperately to my composure.

He stares at me from his spot: disinterested, half-slipping out of consciousness once again. And this time, that's all it takes for me to crack. Storming across the room, I snatch the bottle from his hand, long before he has time to even realise that I've moved, let alone retaliate. I hold the drink triumphantly.

"And what now, Princess?" he says, a vicious smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "You going to drink it?"

And to his surprise, I do. The drink burns my throat, scorching my insides. How does he drink this so casually? I wonder. After a session of discreet coughs and a rather large amount of spluttering, I look up to meet his gaze. He cocks an eyebrow, staring expectantly. "Congratulations," he says, the sarcasm laid on thick. "I'll never drink again." And then all form of emotion has left his face once more, as he tunes out my attempts to speak and returns to his world of liquor.

Now, I can hold my drink fairly well. But this was strong. And as I make my way to the door, I feel myself stumbling over my own two feet. Seconds before I turn the handle, a voice behind me says, "And make sure you lock the door on your way out. If any more of your kind come in, I think I'll be sick." Glancing at the floor, I see that he has already done so.

I whip around, the sudden movement making my head whirl. "My kind?"

"Rich. Egotistical." The following word comes out with an edge of repulse. "Capitol." He shuts his eyes, laying back, feet high on the table.

Regretting each step that I take, I make my way back towards him, jabbing a finger in the direction of his face. "Don't do this to me, Haymitch. Don't play the high-and-mighty card."

He raises a hand and I go to move back, but he only reaches for another bottle. Holding it in front of me, he hesitates. "Care for another drink?" Before I can even respond, he's chuckling. But it's demeaning, and there's a nasty edge to his tone that only appears when he's overly and irrevocably drunk.

Whether it's anger or the previous drink, I don't know, but something inside of me makes me accept, if only to annoy him further. "If you'd be so kind," I say, through gritted teeth.

He hands over a fresh bottle, his expression unchanging, and out of perhaps no more than my own stubbornness, I down the lot. And then another. And then before I can stop myself, I've made my way through a total of- was it five? Six? I lost count after the third. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch studying his liquor collection, counting (and then recounting) the bottles. He doesn't look too pleased. Meanwhile, I sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the hard sofa cushion, eyeing him intently. My head throbs and my vision blurs, but my other senses feel heightened. Perhaps too much so.

Haymitch turns on me. "How many did you drink?" he asks accusingly, shifting his eyes from his unopened stack, to the bottles lying around me.

I instantly feel myself getting defensive, bracing for an argument. "You're a fine one to talk." The words spill out. After an hour or two of silence, it feels odd to speak again. My thoughts are clouded; I neither remember, nor think of, the past or near future. The only thing I can focus on is now.

Haymitch scoffs. "Exactly how drunk are you, Trinket?"

I try to think back a few seconds, sure my dialogue was delivered fine. "Not very," I mumble.

"What was that?"

I shoot him a sudden glare, but the movement makes my brain ache. With the help of the sofa, I pull myself to my feet, gripping the door frame behind me. "Has the drink affected your ears now, too?" I say. "I said, not very."

"Walk towards me," Haymitch says, narrowing his eyes, but the amusement is clear in his voice.

"I think I best be going."

"Not until you can prove you can walk." I stare at him, dumbfounded. Surely, he can not be serious. I feel for the door handle behind me, knowing I could leave if I wanted to. But instead I laugh. And what began as a laugh, soon turns into a giggle. Before long, I am standing in Haymitch's doorway, laughing alone at an unspoken joke. If he thinks me insane, he doesn't say. Instead, he sighs, takes a deep breath, and slouches back down onto the couch.

When I finally stop, I find Haymitch's eyes fixed on mine, with an expression that I can't quite place. "Done?" he says. His voice is neither cheerful, nor angry. I nod courteously, biting back a grin. "Good." We stand in silence for a moment longer. "Are you going or not?" he finally asks, beginning to get annoyed with my lingering presence.

With a huff, I turn on my heels and swing the door open. Only for it to collide with my forehead. The sound is harsh, echoing mercilessly around the room. The impact pushes me back, and although I try, I cannot stop myself from falling to the ground. So there I sit: bleeding, bruised, and inebriated. The night does not seem as funny anymore.

A hand rises timidly to the newly opened cut, as I try to see just how much damage I've done. I feel the warm, sticky substance and withdraw immediately. My hand is covered in red. I hear Haymitch stifling a laugh behind me. Panic brewing in the pit of my stomach, I turn to face him.

"Don't be so pathetic," he says, leaving the room. "It's just a cut." Yet this doesn't stop him from returning with a bandage in one hand, and a wet flannel in the other, throwing them towards me. I stare at the objects as they land next to my legs.

"You know, Haymitch, it really was very rude of that door to do such a thing," I mumble, dragging myself to the nearest mirror. My eyesight has been altered terribly, enough so that I can barely see my own reflection, but I try nonetheless. Wrapping the flannel into a ball, I press it onto the wound. The pressure makes me wince. After a few minutes, my arm aches and I'm making no progress. I remove the compress, only to be left with a severe loss of powder. I flop back down onto the sofa. "Good night," I say. I think I can hear Haymitch questioning my actions, but his voice sounds distant.

Grabbing an old shirt off the floor, I pull it over me. It smells of alcohol, musk, and Haymitch. I decide I like it. I turn over, facing the back of the sofa, and begin to drift off. My dreams are vivid tonight: screaming, tears, knives thrashing violently. But I stay quiet. My dreams are mine and mine alone; that will not change.

At some point throughout the night, I hear shuffling. I assume a blanket has been placed over me for my shivering ceases. While I feel a slight sensation of pain, a cool cloth is placed on my forehead. Soon, I am oblivious to the world.

When I awake, the morning light hurts my eyes. My head feels as though it's being pulled in a thousand directions, and my body aches severely. As I lay and try to recall the events of last night, I vaguely hear the snoring from across the room subside. A wave of embarrassment flushes over my entire being as memories of laughing outbursts and troublesome doors come back to me. I bolt upright.

"Don't move so fast, you fool," Haymitch growls from the other chair. "Not unless you want the cut to reopen."

I know full well that my face is red; there is no doubt in my mind that I have turned the deepest shade of crimson. I own a wig that very colour. Ignoring his advice, I shoot to my feet. The pain that rushes through my head leaves me breathless, gasping for air. My stomach feels as though it will contract in on itself, and a sickly feeling leaves my body weak. I flop back down onto the sofa, and as foretold, a trickle of blood makes it's way down my forehead.

"Well done, Princess," Haymitch sighs, exasperated. I'm surprised to see that he has sobered up considerably.

Whisking my bag up from the floor, Haymitch throws it towards me. I miss, but it lands at my feet. Inside, a packet of painkillers stare me down. "I'd suggest you take those," he says, motioning to the small white pills. "The money's for your hair. It's a wreck." I look again, and sure enough, a stack of cash remains hidden in the pocket.

"Thank you," I say quietly, avoiding his gaze. With trembling legs, I make my way to the door, small movements only. Clearing my throat, I say, "Make sure you're ready by 12, Haymitch. I won't have you showing up late again."

And the last thing I hear before closing the door, and making my way back to my own room, is his low, throaty chuckle. I reach for my painkillers.


End file.
